


Sorath

by Blaid (HubrisP), Kako



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 23:08:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2446487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HubrisP/pseuds/Blaid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kako/pseuds/Kako
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester was a man of luck, having survived as long as he had, having been returned to life more times than he could count. But he never considered himself special, part of a grand plan to change the balance of power in creation forever, even in his new demonic rebirth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Something was not right.

There was a certain change in the planes of Hell, as if the screams turned a little bit quieter and the darkness a little more dark. The scent of blood wafted through his dulled over senses, tasting coppery on his tongue, feeling rough as it slid down his sore throat. His battered body shivered and shook against the chains that restricted it, heart beating faster in his chest with the sudden rush of fear. Yes, something was definitely wrong. And whatever it was, it was heading straight for him.

Sometimes Alastair was above him and sometimes Alastair wasn't, but when he was, it made the most horrible emotions invade his mind. Always with that shiny knife that cut into his flesh, shaving off the skin and carving symbols with crimson. Those inhuman features had never stopped haunting him at every second, filling the gaps in his memory with panic along with the cracks in his heart. But this, this wasn't his torturer. This thing didn't feel like a demon, almost felt pure, pure like the whispers in the back of his mind.

He would occasionally hear a voice, drifting over the thoughts of _help me help me help me Sammy_ , so small yet so strong. It sounded like release, it sounded like family and happiness and all the other things he had lost, and he had clung to that during the time he had been here. This presence was like that, calming his shouts and desperation, but it wasn't the same. It was... tainted.

Tainted?

His train of thought was lost to the wind at the brush of a finger against his cheek, warm unlike the cold demeanor of Hell and cooling unlike its burning heat. His eyes were wide open but he couldn't see, just another thing that had been taken from him. It was always scarier not knowing where the strike would come from, but perhaps it would be even worse to see the Pit for what it truly was, so he didn't complain. It had been so long since he had felt the sensation of skin against his. Alastair was always careful not to touch, hot breath ghosting over sweat-coated features and taunts thrown at every swipe of the blade. But this gesture was so gentle, so soft, and another whisper made it's way to the surface of his subconscious; _righteous_.

The feeling disappeared, smooth caress becoming the tiniest gust of wind along his face. He missed it was soon as it was gone, treasuring the break away from constant pain for as long as it would be allowed to last. The words spoken were not in the harsh tones of Alastair or the pureness of the whispers in his mind; they were coated with a new voice, seductive and mocking, and he realized that the presence had reached him now.

" _Dean Winchester_ ," it murmured, nearly impressed and completely amused, but he didn't dare interrupt. " _Out of all the souls down here, yours shines the brightest_."

He didn't know he had a soul anymore. Dean had thought that it had been lost a long time ago, sinking under the waves of constant pain and internal pounding of his heart. If it was there, surely it wasn't bright. If it was there, than it was just as tainted as the presence above him.

Wisps of light and tendrils of darkness hardened into a human structure once more, something he wished he could see for himself. Dean knew that this power only did this out of courtesy, that it could destroy him with a single push of will, and maybe that's what had kept him quiet. Another sensation, cheek against his own, lips sliding over the outline of his jaw. There was the teasing smile that drifted along flesh, imprinting its shape in the dark purple bruises that bloomed along his body. Teeth nibbled at his earlobe, as if to bring back pleasures that he had given away long ago. Nothing stirred in his gut like it used to, no warmness in his chest or the tingling beginnings of ecstasy, but he still leaned into the feeling nonetheless.

The voice came again, but it had an edge of anxiousness to it, a tint of expectation. The words that came was a suggestion that Dean knew not to refuse. " _You should open those pretty eyes of yours_. _Better to see me that way_." He didn't know what difference that would make but he didn't care either, lips pressing against his own in a sort of promise for more.

Dean's eyelids drifted open, and for once he saw it all. But the first thing he noticed were those irises, crudely carved into a misshapen face, holding no color, holding no emotion. The were plastered above a mouth stretched into a horrid smile, and the wing that cupped his body was full and white unlike its rotten and withering counterpart. He didn't know what he was seeing but he did know he would never comprehend it, never comprehend its raw power and energy.

It was beautiful.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean dreams of Hell, and him and Crowley talk.

_Being free was... different. It was the strangest kind of concept after he had spent so long being trapped, wrapped around Alastair's finger and broken down again and again. The sensation of a sharpened blade cutting into his skin had become a natural occurrence, the sight of bright yellow irises peeling away at his very being sometimes the only thing he could see, but now he could see it all._

_Hell was not a solid place, not really, constantly flitting around the edges of his vision. Dean could never quite seem to grasp the whole picture, only mere flashes of red and the most blinding kind of darkness, almost like the white underside of a deer's tail as it flees from your hold. He could imagine that better, scenery constantly changing while never taking shape, but the ear-splitting screams and coppery taste of blood seemed to make up for it. It felt like he had spent years being held down by chains, and perhaps it had been just as long, perhaps it had been centuries._

_It didn't make sense as to why Alastair would let him go so easily; Dean was his project, his toy, all for the demon to taint and destroy. Deep purple bruises bloomed along the paleness of his sweat-coated skin, elegant symbols from a lost language carved into flesh and crimson displayed against white like a work of art, and that's what he was- he was Alastair's masterpiece. No, he wouldn't give Dean up, neither easily nor at all, and yet here he was._

_He wasn't truly free but he was free enough, something that he kept reminding himself. Dean felt like if he said the word enough it would loose its meaning and become something alien, something fake. No matter how many times the word lifted off his tongue, however, brushing against chapped and broken lips and escaping from his mouth, it still felt just the same. It was still a lie and a hope wrapped in one, and he wondered how long it would take him to realize that he was never truly free._

_He concentrated on the feel of the ground underneath his bare feet, the cold that engulfed his naked form. It was strange, having a body in a place so shapeless. Dean felt like he was a rock in a vast ocean, unimportant, out of place. And cold. So very, very cold. The floor was rough under his toes, just like his breath was rough passing through his throat and the echoes of screams were rough against his ears. Hell didn't know how to be_ soft _, how to be_ gentle _, and he was the tiniest bit surprised that he had been expecting otherwise._

_His eyes couldn't find the horizon, couldn't find something that felt real, nothing but the icy wind seeping into his bones. Dean walked forward nonetheless, the world around him a soft, pulsing red, torn up and broken in the most beautiful ways possible. He almost wished Sam could see it, see past the torture and blood and pain, and see Hell as he did, see the beauty after so much darkness._

_He didn't notice the presence until it spoke, voice a soft sigh and mouth pressing against the outline of his jaw. Dean tensed, the touch fleeting, but the words clung onto the remains of his soul._ "Dean Winchester _._ "

 _He couldn't spot it against the changing scenery of Hell, couldn't find a person to the voice. "I thought we established this," he retorted, glancing around nervously. Whatever this was, this particular demon, it struck the deepest sense of fear into his heart_ _that only Alastair could manage._

_A wave of heat pressed against him then, desperate and sudden, banishing the cold. He found himself relaxing into its embrace, fear being snatched away and replaced by comfort. Dean could remember only a few things from his life, so many memories having faded with his time in the pit. His mind recalled back to when him and Sam were kids, when his brother would crawl into his bed whenever he had nightmares. The blankets would be lifted for the slowest of seconds, letting a bit of night brush against his sleeping form, but any discomfort would banish as Sammy wound his tiny arms around his chest. That heat felt just the same, causing shivers of pleasure to run down his spine, giving him the illusion of security._

_"What are you doing?" He hissed, but he didn't dare try to escape. Even if he wanted to, Dean knew he couldn't._

_A mimic of a laugh floated into the air somewhere behind him, and then there were the arms holding him from behind, strong enough to put him back together._ "I imagined you were cold _,_ " _it admitted, voice genderless but more human than before. There was a body behind his, one that pressed against his back and curved around his form, a chin the rested on his shoulder and_ _a breath that breezed along his neck. Something soft wrapped around his torso, and when he looked down, he saw the pristine glow of white feathers. He knew there was another wing to go with it, broken and rotten and just as special, knew the face that they both belonged to._

_Dean shivered again. "Who are you?" This particular monster brought back emotions he had thought Alastair had destroyed, want and lust flickering through the grogginess of his mind, but there was still the fear. Another kiss was placed on the curve of his neck, and he could feel the grin behind tight lips. Dean tensed, struggling slightly, surprised when he was released at the smallest push. He quickly looked back, eyes too eager to catch the face imprinted into his mind, but there was only empty space behind him._

_There was a flicker, a shadow of light, and he knew he still wasn't alone._ "Does it matter who I am?" _The presence questioned, taunting, tones still teasingly human even as its voice came from all sides. Dean felt a growl in the back of his throat, a strange little thing, and he grew disgusted at himself even as the noise morphed into a whimper._

_The other one seemed to bristle at that, and there was another flicker, and tiny glimpse of someone not quite there but never quite gone. Dean wound his arms around his too thin frame, limbs twisted and bent and bloody and all the things they shouldn't be. He was twisted and bent and bloody, soul something it shouldn't be, but Dean couldn't truly be anything else._

_"Just tell me," he snapped back, then stiffened. "Please?" Dean flinched, resisting the urge to curl up. If there was one thing Alastair didn't tolerate, it was being ordered by his own playthings, and he had learned that lesson fairly quickly. It simply wasn't how things worked, if they ever did, and Dean wasn't the one to disturb that._

"Sorath _,_ " _was the answer, and Dean scowled._

_"What kind of name is that supposed to be?" He looked down at the ground, staring at his torn skin, at the cuts that marked his body and the scars that wouldn't fade. He wondered, faintly, if the blood would ever fully wash away._

_It moved closer, and he could feel it, feel the touch that didn't meet his skin. Dean could sense the eyes that hadn't formed, and he knew that they were seeing right through the layers of flesh and bone, peering straight down and into the soul._ "It's my name _,_ " _it answered, brushing off Dean's tone, simply not caring. But if it didn't care about him, why was it here? Why had it ever come?_

_"What's the point of you?" He said instead, but the words weren't as harsh as he had wanted them to be. Dean hadn't meant to sound so curious, so genuinely surprised, but there was only so many people that could have him released and this thing was definitely one of them. Dean couldn't remember how it came to be, only that one second he was bathed in pain and the next he was free, and for what? Because he was pretty?_

"I could ask you the same thing _,_ " _Sorath bit back._ "But I already know the answer _._ "

_"Oh?" His heart wasn't in the conversation anymore. In fact, he was fairly certain his heart had been ripped out of his chest a long time ago, but he listened nonetheless._

"You are so... unhappy _._ " _It was an observation, the kind that made people roll their eyes and scoff, and that was exactly what Dean did._

_"No shit, Sherlock," he mumbled, turning away. It wasn't as if it mattered, and surely it wouldn't be long until he was taken back. He could imagine Alastair waiting for his return, all curls of black smoke and dark intent, anxious to try out new tricks and punish Dean for being let free._

_He shuddered violently, nearly collapsing in on himself, and those wings were back to catch him. Dean didn't know what this thing was getting at, but he couldn't say he wanted to escape. There was that same kind of security in being in the embrace, of being sheltered from the horror of Hell, and it had been too long since someone besides his torturer had graced him with their presence. Someone as disgusting as him, holding him in wings so beautiful, repairing his being if just for a mere moment- no, he couldn't find himself minding at all._

"Sorath _,_ " _it corrected helpfully, not letting go, like Dean was a prize to be kept close._ "I thought we already established this _._ "

_And Dean decided he liked this human form better, something tangible to grip on to, something that you didn't have to release._

* * *

 

If his dreams were water, water that pulled him under and never drained, waking up was like being pulled out of an ocean of emotions and realities long since lost. He gasped as he came up, choking on words he hadn't said, forced out of a hallucination that would never make sense.

And Crowley, for his part, watched.

Dean shot the king of Hell the deadliest glare he could muster, crossing his legs and breathing deeply. Sweat stained sheets wrapped around his body as if they were trying to drag him back into sleep, perspiration coating his skin and making a spike of disgust race through his mind. The bed he sat on smelled like sex but the pillows smelled like tears, and his features soured.

"What do you want?" Dean snapped. He had been happy enough so far, the bar that they had stopped at being his element, but the other man was ruining that. His dreams weren't helping, either. What kind of demon slept? It wasn't normal, not for the circumstances, but he supposed he had never been used to normal.

Crowley sat down at the bed, right were Anne Marie had been the previous night. Dean should have known she would leave, and honestly, he didn't care that she did. It was only a matter of time before the First Blade took her life, too. She was lucky that he craved the sex more than her blood.

Dark eyes regarded him silently, holding too many emotions for him to read. "What did you dream about?" He asked, like a teenager asking for the latest gossip, as if Dean could reveal to him all the secrets of the universe through a few little words.

He snorted. If he _had_ all the secrets of the universe, he wouldn't be here. "What makes you think I would tell you?"

Despite what Crowley liked to believe, they weren't friends. Partners, maybe, but only until Dean figured out what he wanted. After that, there wouldn't be a thing to stop him from taking it.

Crowley hummed thoughtfully, awfully docile for the short-tempered demon he was, and Dean wrinkled his nose in pity. "It was Hell, wasn't it, Winchester?"

He smiled a smile with too much teeth. "What do you want?" What did it matter? What he had seen- none of that had happened in his years down under. Nothing had been there but Alastair, nothing but pain.

Crowley only shook his head, standing, and made like Dean was to follow. The younger had none of it, looking on in mild curiosity. "Come on," he urged. "We have places to be."

"You have places to be," he corrected. "I'm fine right here."

"Dean," Crowley pressed on, and it sounded like a whine. He rolled his eyes.

"Fine, I'll bite," he gave. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see," the shorter promised. "I'll explain on the way."

Dean raised an eyebrow, smirking. "See, cutie, I have no reason to leave, and you have no way to make me." He stretched out, lounging lazily on the bed, bright green eyes sprinkled with mischief. "So if you want me to come with you, you're gonna have to tell me why, first."

Crowley sighed, scowling, but complied. "There's tricky business going on at home," he admitted. "The masters of Hell are starting to rise-"

"I thought you were already here?" Dean interrupted. Crowley huffed.

"There were others before me," he hurried on impatiently. "I wasn't the first ruler, but I plan to be the last. With you by my side, of course," he amended, and Dean only chuckled.

"Well," he reasoned. "If these guys spent so long down there without coming out, it can't be that important. What's the chance they'll make an appearance now?" He was just playing along, not much believing that Crowley was telling the truth but not caring enough to call it out, and he wondered if the older saw that.

"It's not that simple," Crowley said, and Dean felt like snapping off his own neck. "Only one of the old rulers needs to rise for all the others to be brought up with him. That moment is coming soon."

"Okay?" Dean spat out. "Why am I supposed to care? What, do you want me to stab them with Cain's jawbone?"

"No!" Crowley said, shaking his head madly, and Dean almost wanted to shear it off from where it was perched. He crossed his arms instead, thoroughly annoyed.

"Do you know what?" He asked. "I don't care. Take me, whatever, but just get it over with." He sat a little straighter as Crowley immediately perked up. "And then we come right back, got it?"

"Of course," the king promised, laying a hand on his shoulder and taking them away, but Dean didn't believe him for a second.


	3. Chapter Two

Dean blinked awake from his dreamless sleep, straightening up in his seat with a groan. His head had fallen onto his shoulder, craning and stretching his neck painfully, and the demon hated being so human.

Crowley watched his movements in the corner of his eye, keeping quiet. They were driving along a stretch of road that reached the horizon's edge and further on, day already rotted into night.

"How long have we been driving?" Dean grunted. Crowley thought about it for a short moment, voice crisp and short when he answered.

"Few hours." Dean sighed, looking out the fog-clouded window.

"Remind me, why are we driving again?" He glanced back when Crowley didn't respond. "I don't see why you can't just teleport us to Hell."

"We aren't going to Hell, Winchester," Crowley told him.

"Then where are we going?"

"And here I thought you liked spending time with me-"

Dean cut him off with a snap of his fingers, watching as the older's mouth clamped shut. "I don't have time for your shit," he warned. "You promised answers, so deliver."

Crowley sent him a glare as the spell wore off, fuming, but answered nonetheless. "Wyoming," he told the other, setting his gaze on the road. "I'm sure you recall a certain landmark there."

Dean's eyes widened. "The Devil's Gate." He realized. "Why?"

"Where else do you help a master of Hell rise to the Earth?" Dean frowned.

"I thought we were trying to stop them from rising," he said. Crowley shook his head.

"We wouldn't want to do that," he said. "I would prefer them out of my domain than stuck in it, personally, and it's in my best interest not to interfere. Yours, too," he informed, and Dean's frown deepened.

"Why do you say that?" There was a bump in the road and the car lurched, Dean gripping onto the side of his door. Crowley snorted as the road evened out once more, earning himself a hiss from his companion, but he only rolled his eyes.

"Oi, shut up," he ordered. "As for your question, Winchester, I can't imagine you would want to displease your boyfriend."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean's eyes flickered when Crowley only grinned. "Are you hiding something from me?"

Crowley held up his hands in surrender, waiting until Dean calmed down. "I've been hiding a great deal of things from you, Winchester, and this is just another."

Dean hesitated, actually hesitated, before giving in. "Who exactly is this guy we're bringing up from Hell?"

Crowley was silent for a moment and Dean let him be, drawing meaningless symbols in condensation from his window. "Those dreams you've been having," he finally spoke. "Events in Hell that you don't remember living through, all about a certain person you're sure you've never met."

"How do you know about that?" Crowley fidgeted.

"Why wouldn't I?" He asked. "There's a certain reason you've been dreaming those things, Dean. You and I know both know they're real."

"Of course they're not," he scoffed. "There isn't any Sorath-"

"Funny you should say that, as he's the thing we're about to break out of our home," Crowley interrupted. "Stop trying to fool yourself, Dean."

"I'm not," he insisted.

"Doesn't seem like that to me," Crowley teased, and Dean's voice raised to a shout.

"I don't care!" He yelled. "I know that thing wasn't there, Crowley. I was alone!" The demon looked at him sharply.

"You can quiet down now," he said. "Believe what you will, but you'll see who's right as soon as we get there."

"Whatever," he snapped. "But stop the friggin' car. I'm not driving with you all the way to Wyoming."

"You'll have to wait," Crowley told him. "We're meeting someone there, but they haven't arrived just yet. Teleporting to the gate right now won't get you anywhere."

"It'll get me away from you," he offered, disappearing the next second, and then Crowley was alone. 

* * *

 

_Hell was not a solid place, constantly in the process of changing and morphing and being never quite there. He rather liked it, for what it was. It matched his personality, after all, shifting in sync with the core of his being._

_He was in a room, half impressed by its appearance and half surprised that it hadn't already faded by now. It was a large, circular area, floor shining marble that threatened to disappear under his feet. The walls were pure darkness, simply space, and the skies were exposed above his head in flashes of bright red._

_One second the King of Hell wasn't there and the next he was, bending the very fabric of his realm with ease. Crowley's form flickered into view, wearing his human skin like an uncomfortable suit that scratched at the dark energy under flesh._

_He twisted pale lips into a well enough meaning smile, watching with eyes that weren't shaped on his face. "_ Welcome _," he greeted, with voice that rang throughout the near silence, only fractured by distant screams. "_ And what have you to report _?"_

_Crowley's stolen features twisted and turned, and it took him awhile to realize that the demon's face revealed anger. "What do you think?" He demanded, words unpleasant and grating on his nerves. Crowley's cheeks flushed a deep crimson, colors vibrant against dark irises. "Do you have any idea what I've been through? For you, of all people?" His voice rose with each sentence. "To think, having to serve someone who can't-"_

_The strings of letters and syllables died on the very tip of Crowley's tongue, the demon backing up with weariness. The other's skin and bones had become vapor in the air, the energy that had once been his soul taking up the rest of the room. His smoke-like form changed into a distinct human shape in front of Crowley, red lines of molten lava outlining the image and strengthening it beyond a mere silhouette. The ruler recognized the offensive pose for what it was, the enemy preparing to strike, and he raised his arms above his head in surrender._

_Crowley wasn't one to beg, not at all, and he wasn't going to begin now. It was a relief when his master retreated back to the other side of the room, flickering and fading and becoming one with the darkness. Crowley's own shadow arched towards the greater being, as if drawn in by the pure power that came off in waves._

_"_ I understand you have been through much _," he said, tones loosing all traces of humanity they had possessed moments ago. "_ Your agitation is understandable. Misplaced _," he reinforced. "_ But understandable _."_

_The walls weren't there anymore, gone with the flashes of lightning from above. It almost made no difference, other than the planes that stretched out behind his sight. Crowley bowed his head, saying nothing, choosing to take no notice._

_"_ Don't forget _," he continued. "_ You will be rewarded, my servant _." The rank was a harsher insult than the King of Hell could admit, but a response didn't come. "_ You shall rule over the damned by our side as agreed, Fergus _."_

_He flinched at the old name, but nodded nonetheless. "Of course."_

_The ground shook and cracked under Crowley's feet, his master leaving the demon on his own. The marble finally broke apart, falling into an endless abyss, and Hell moved on._


End file.
